


Huddled for Warmth

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blow Jobs, D/s undertones, Fingering, Hand Jobs, Hawke is a giant child, M/M, PWP, Snow Day, giant snowstorm, wanna build a snowmaaaaan?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Kirkwall is hit by a freak snowstorm. Hawke wants to go outside and play, but Anders has other ideas about how to cope with that much snow on the ground.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/gifts).



> A short, fluffy, smutty fic inspired by some snow falling where I live. I had been thinking of writing you a holidays fic anyway. Happy Holidays, hollyand! Hope you like it!

“Anders, wake up, love. It’s snowing!”

Anders grumbles and rolls over, reaching for Hawke in the bed they share (and will he ever get used to that thought? probably not) only to find empty covers and a rapidly cooling dent where Hawke used to be. Only then does he crack one eye open, searching for the rogue. Hawke stands in front of the room’s window, naked as the day the Maker created him, and Anders takes a moment to admire the view he’s been blessed with this morning. Legs, long and leanly muscled, meet the perfect swell of an ass that fits in Anders’s hands like it was born to be there. Hawke’s back is broad, criss-crossed with light scars from all the near misses he’s had in his life. Anders knows many of them were there before he met Hawke, products both of growing up on the run with an apostate for a father and a sister and of his utter lack of a sense of self-preservation. Hawke, though a deadly foe with his twin daggers, has a tendency to rush into battle if he thinks it will protect someone he loves. He also likes to climb tall trees and dangle upside down. Their trips to Sundermount take half a day longer than they should because Hawke is busy climbing trees and falling out of them.

Hawke’s shoulders are unbowed by all the demands placed upon him: the protection of his sister even though she lives in the Gallows now; watching over the miners at the Bone Pit, a foolish venture if there ever was one, but Hawke has a soft spot for his fellow countrymen and couldn’t in good conscience let Hubert run the mine unchecked; and now, the mantle of the Champion, given him by the Viscount and Knight-Commander, a responsibility that Anders knows weighs on him mightily, though he never shows it outside the safety of their bedroom.

As if he can feel Anders’s thoughts, Hawke turns and smiles brilliantly. Anders smiles back, recalling a time last night where Hawke had given him that look, at least until Anders pushed into him and changed that grin to a gasping, heretical prayer. Hawke, damn him, ignores the suggestive way Anders pats the pillow next to him and instead points out the window.

“Snow, Anders!”

And indeed it is snowing, great sheets of the stuff falling from the sky at, frankly, an alarming rate. Anders props himself up on an elbow, the better to see out the window. What he can see of Kirkwall is completely covered, a clean, white blanket. There aren’t even footsteps in it, as far as he can tell, which must mean it’s deep enough to deter even the most stubborn of Kirkwall’s citizens from going out. Hawke looks practically gleeful, and Anders flops down onto his back.

“You know what we did at Kinloch when it snowed?” he asks, tilting his head to look at Hawke. “ _Huddled together for warmth._ ” He waggles his eyebrows and writhes a little under the covers to get his point across, patting the top of the covers with one hand. Hawke laughs and returns to the bed like Anders wants, though he kneels _next_ to Anders on the edge of the bed, _above_ the covers, sinking back onto his heels and casting a longing look back out the window.

“Don’t you want to, I don’t know, build a snowman? Have a snowball fight?” Hawke asks, leaning down for a kiss, trying to convince Anders to come out with him. Anders imagines the rogue, outside in the snow, using his stealth to come up behind him and dump snow down the back of his robes and shakes his head as Hawke pulls away. Hawke favors him with a sad, you-kicked-my-kitten look, and Anders apologizes by stretching up to kiss him, using one arm to pull Hawke back down.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he purrs, his other hand finding Hawke’s cock and half-grabbing him through the blankets, moving _just so_ to make it a promise. Anders will never tire of the way Hawke falls apart under the skillful application of his fingers. Even the wonder of the snow falling outside holds no sway now that Anders has his hands on his rogue, and he can see thoughts of snowmen falling out of Hawke’s head as Anders’s strokes show him just how good huddling for warmth can be. Anders chuckles as Hawke begins to rut into him, adding to the friction of Anders’s hand stroking him through the layers of bedclothes, and Anders uses his other hand to guide Hawke’s mouth back to his. Hawke groans, desperately biting and licking Anders’s lips, moaning as Anders alternates squeezing and stroking his cock, hard and leaking now.

“More,” Hawke whimpers, burying his face in Anders’s neck as his hips stutter helplessly.

Anders tugs sideways on Hawke’s hair; the short, black strands are unfortunately not conducive to real grabbing, and Anders has thus far been unsuccessful in his attempts to convince Hawke to grow it out. But Hawke gasps, obligingly tilting his head the way Anders tugs. At least his lover is a very obedient sort, Anders thinks, sitting up in the bed and pushing Hawke down, carefully, so he doesn’t fall off the side. Hawke goes willingly, and Anders kicks the covers away so he can crawl up the length of Hawke’s body, pressing him down into the bed.

“Maker, yes,” Hawke says, thrusting upward against Anders’s own, very hard, cock. He wraps a hand around Anders, stroking once, twice, until Anders regains himself and lightly slaps Hawke’s hand away.

“None of that,” he says, bending low and whispering in Hawke’s ear. He nips at Hawke’s earlobe in admonishment, and Hawke hisses, arching beneath him, and throws his arms out to the side, fisting his hands in the sheets. Anders nibbles his way up and around Hawke’s ear, mouthing at the curled cartilage, humming with pleasure at the pleading sounds coming from the man spread under him. He kisses down Hawke’s neck, nudging the man’s face one way and then the other with his nose to get at both sides, and pauses to suck a mark into the skin below Hawke’s collarbone. 

Anders loves the way Hawke bends underneath him, the easy way he cedes control to Anders when they’re alone in this room. Outside these walls, where the Champion is all anyone sees, Hawke is indisputably in charge, directing their merry band of misfits and, to a lesser but still palpable extent, the politics of the city-state. Out there, Anders obeys Hawke, going where he asks, slinging fire at their enemies and healing the wounds of their friends. There, Hawke knows best. But inside the Hawke manor, within this room, Anders knows best. In here, Hawke obeys Anders, lets Anders take care of him, and it is the most beautiful thing Anders has witnessed in his life.

He slowly makes his way down Hawke’s chest, biting harshly then soothing with kisses, his cock twitching eagerly at each breathless moan that escapes Hawke. He rakes a hand after his mouth, deliberately catching his fingernails on pebbled nipples, and Hawke groans, long and low. Anders plants a chaste kiss on the tip of Hawke’s cock, pulling a high-pitched keening sound from Hawke, and chuckles as he trails a hand down Hawke’s leg, reaching with the other for the oil on the bedside table. He can will some into existence, the perks of being a mage, but sometimes he likes the ritual surrounding the bottle, uncorking, spreading, recorking. It also has the benefit of causing Hawke to raise his head to watch the whole process, and Anders makes a show of it, pulling the stopper out with his teeth, pouring the oil into his palm, replacing the stopper and closing his lips around the vial. Hawke’s eyes darken and though Anders can see the muscles in his stomach rippling from the strain of holding his head up, he doesn’t look away. Anders waits, watching back, rolling the oil around his hand.

“Hnng, Maker, Anders, please,” Hawke gasps, his head dropping by a fraction, and Anders spreads Hawke’s legs to kneel between them, dipping his oil-covered hand to circle the tight ring of muscle. “Yes Anders, oh please, please.” Hawke’s head drops back onto the bed with a _whump_ , and Anders obliges him, carefully inserting one finger and twisting it around before sliding in a second. Hawke shivers as Anders scissors his fingers, stretching and filling him. His hands clench and unclench in the covers, and he begins to babble, long strings on inanities centering on the words “please,” “Maker,” and “Anders.”

If he were a better man, Anders would have long ago stopped being flattered at that, but he takes joy and pride in his name being one of the few things Hawke’s far-gone mind fixes on. He’s always been a heretical sort, and Anders sees no reason to change that now.

He slips in a third finger, stretching up and curling down, angling for the spot that makes Hawke gasp so harshly he nearly chokes, then milks it slowly, watching Hawke’s face as it spasms in ecstasy. Anders leans down, licking and sucking at Hawke’s cock while his fingers work inside. There’s a spot, just below the tip, that Anders has discovered is the most sensitive place, and he focuses his attention there until Hawke’s babbling turns to wordless screams and he arches, bucking off the bed. Anders doesn’t let up. He curls his fingers faster, works his tongue harder, and is rewarded when Hawke bucks one final time, bowing off the bed, screaming his release. He shoots all across his chest and neck, collapsing back down, heaving great breaths.

Anders pulls his fingers gently from Hawke and wraps them around his own cock. He only needs a few jerks before he’s following Hawke over, gasping and breathless, his seed falling onto Hawke to mingle with the fluid already there in the most perfect, debauched way. He lays down next to Hawke, gathering him in his arms and stroking his face and hair while his breathing slows and he comes back to himself. It’s only when Hawke hums and looks up at Anders, his eyes clear and shining, that Anders kisses his forehead and gets up to grab a cloth to clean them off with.

Hawke doesn’t protest when Anders tugs him toward the head of the bed, pulling the covers up around them. He snuggles down, pillowing his head on Anders’s shoulder and throwing an arm across his chest. Anders laughs.

“What was that about building snowmen?” he asks, scratching at Hawke’s scalp.

“Huddling for warmth is nice too, I suppose,” Hawke grumbles, but Anders can hear the smile in his voice and kisses the top of his head as they both are overtaken by sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to one of my excellent friends (flaresandwisdom) who helped me beta this, even though she's not in the fandom: you're a real hero. without you, this whole thing would not have worked out quite so well.


End file.
